


Like Blood On the Walls

by candesgirl



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Elimination Chamber, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M, Metaphors, Needy Dean, One Shot, Past Drug Use, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Smut, ambrollins - Freeform, darker, hwc belt sex, otp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 14:26:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4104184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candesgirl/pseuds/candesgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Dean thinks he could live out the rest of his days just like this; at the precipice, where anticipation sings in his blood.'</p><p>Dean wins the match, leaves with the belt, makes his way to his room to wait for Seth. Dean's been addicted to some stuff, but nothing quite like Seth. </p><p>Dean feels like he might drown in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Blood On the Walls

**Author's Note:**

> Smutty smut, with feelings. Belt sex, because there's never enough belt sex. Little bit of consensual breathplay, and a bunch of mentions of Dean's past drug habit. A little bit darker, but Dean's default is dark. 
> 
> I fell in love with Arctic Monkeys' R U Mine over the weekend, and this was born of that. I told KimBoo I was obsessed and she told me the song was 'like blood on the walls' and my brain exploded with what an amazing metaphor that is for this song, for this ship, for my brain. 
> 
> I still don't own WWE, and that still makes me sad. If I owned Dean or Seth, I'd make them act out all of my favorite fanfic. I do this for fun, not for profit. 
> 
> Enjoy! Hope you like :) And thank you, thank you, thank you KimBoo for your continued support of my fandom that you're not even in. Roman Reigns is hot, man, I'll get you sucked into it yet ;)

 

The roar of the crowd still rings in his ears. His blood pumps hot, like fire burning through his veins and scorching right underneath his skin. He wants to claw at himself, pick at the ghosts of invisible scars like back when he came off the junk and there’s that same maniacal sort of energy, fueled by gold, by desire, by winning; by the lingering feel of Seth against him. 

He paces the darkened room, ring gear on, belt slung around his waist. The knock on the door sounds distorted, like he’s underwater and maybe he is, because the need is creeping slow and cold up his spine, the contrast to that heat in his veins making him ache, making his skin prickle. It's like murky water and it wants to drag him under, hold him there until he can’t breathe. 

Seth is dressed in messy gym clothes, hair dripping wet down his shoulders like when he comes out to the ring. Dean wonders if maybe Seth is caught in the same rising water because he’s shivering and he’s breathing like his lungs can’t get any air, and Dean wants to watch it consume Seth, wants him wet and dirty, wants to watch him drown. 

The door closes and Dean is pressing Seth into the wall, holding them both temporarily afloat. 

‘Dean,’ Seth breathes against his ear, gasping. 

Dean doesn’t have any words, not any that he can say out loud, not any that will tell Seth what he wants, or show him how he feels. He leans his head against Seth’s, wishes there was a way to press thoughts right into him, the same way he presses desire against Seth’s body, at once both vivid and blurred and too much and not enough. He exhales, right up against Seth’s lips, tries to form his mouth around thoughts or words or Seth’s name, but he can’t think right, can’t think at all, can’t breathe. He wants to steal the stuttered breath right from Seth and he’s shaking when his hands come up around Seth’s throat, thumbs against the hollow of Seth’s collarbone.

Seth swallows hard, Dean can feel it against his fingertips and Seth is staring at him, eyes bright and too trusting. Dean’s prodded at Seth and provoked Seth in the past, until he thought Seth would run away and never look back, but Seth is here. Seth is always here, and Seth might not want to steal the breath right from Dean, but he trusts Dean to steal it right from him. Seth wants to drown with Dean.

The hit from that truth is better than any high Dean’s ever chased before and it's got him pressing against Seth’s throat, thumbs as deep into that hollow as they can go. With a broken noise he leans in, inhales, licks at Seth’s lips. He wants to taste his breath, and Seth is crushed up hard against Dean, running his fingers right under that belt and under damp fabric to trace against Dean’s skin, to feel the stolen breath settle against Dean’s ribs.

His fingers loosen their grip on Seth’s throat, move up to scratch against his beard, rake over his ears, tug on the end of his still dripping wet hair. Seth is gasping again and Dean can’t take it anymore, finally finds his words, tells Seth he feels like he’s drowning. 

Seth looks at him in the dark, with those bright eyes - the only light in the room. ‘Pull me under, Dean,’ he says, and Dean is flying high, tripping on the drug that is Seth.

He lifts Seth up off the wall, as quick and unrelenting as he’d been in the ring not a couple of hours ago. Seth wraps his legs around him, and Dean wants to hold him there, test out that crossfit strength, fuck right up into him until that belt is embossed into his skin and this thing, this feeling comes crashing down over them. But Seth, Seth is pushing off the wall, propelling them forward and Dean goes with the tide, carries him, throws Seth down against the bed. 

Seth surges up, hooks a leg around Dean to pull him down, gets his hands back under Dean’s shirt to rake his nails down Dean’s back, throwing it back again to the ring. Dean feels the burn of it when Seth scratches his nails down the same spot again, and again; hears words being whispered harsh up at him. 

‘Fucking scratching me in front of all those people,’ Seth pulls him down closer to speak close against his lips. He runs his hands soft down Dean’s back, over fresh scratches and warm, raised skin. ‘Like you’re fucking marking me, Dean. Like I’m yours.’

It’s like Seth has lit Dean’s every nerve alight, like he was made just for Dean and just for this thing between them. Seth is telling him how hard he got in the ring, how bad he wanted everyone to know he was Dean’s. Seth tells him that his heart fucking swelled when the crowd thought he won, how good he looks in that gold. Seth is talking, always talking and Dean never wants him to stop, never wants to stop hearing his name, never wants to stop claiming Seth, never wants to stop the urgent slide of their hips against each other in or out of the ring. 

Dean’s never felt more alive, with the win, and the belt, and with Seth and he knows then; he’s not pulling Seth under. Seth would go, willingly - to the ends of the earth and back if Dean asked him to, but that’s not what this is. Seth isn’t drowning with Dean. Seth is anchoring him, keeping right there in the here and the now, giving Dean anything he wants and everything he needs.

Dean flips them then, the adrenaline spiking somewhere around euphoria. He's pushing Seth off of him, rolling him quick to lay on his belly, straddling his hips from behind. He wants to show Seth, wants to say all the things, do all the things and he’s still shaking with it, with this overwhelming fucking need for Seth and this desire to thank him in ways he’s sure he’ll never otherwise be able to. 

‘Seth,’ he says, barely a whisper. It’s all he can manage.

He’s got Seth’s shirt tangled up around his shoulders before he’s tracing angry scratch marks, first with his fingers, then with his tongue, and then Seth is lifting his hips and Dean is sliding shorts down past his hips. He opens Seth up with his fingers and with his tongue, addicted to his taste, to his smell. Seth is intoxicating, to have this much power over him - watching Seth completely fall apart underneath him - is like jabbing that needle in his arm all over again. Dean thinks he could live out the rest of his days just like this; at the precipice, where anticipation sings in his blood. 

Seth chokes out a sob beneath Dean, a plea for more, more, more and Dean needs to see his face when they do this, needs those too bright eyes to hold him there or he really might pull them both under. Dean is up off of Seth, shoves his jeans to his knees, reaches to finally take the belt off and Seth rolls over, stops him. 

‘Leave it on,’ Seth tells him. It’s the hottest thing Dean’s ever heard and then Seth is straddling Dean’s lap to sink down slow on top of him, nothing but Dean’s own messy ministrations helping to ease the stretch. 

Dean wants this to last forever, but Seth is rocking against him and holding on to the belt for leverage, and Seth is hot and hard in Dean’s hand. Each stroke brings a new, broken sound - a sharp, stuttered breath and Dean leans in, gives him back the breath he stole earlier, gives him the words he couldn’t find earlier. It's too quick and too good and Seth convulses around Dean with a sharp cry, warmth pooling between them, over Dean’s hand and onto the belt.

Dean succumbs, finally pulled all the way under as he spills into Seth. 

Seth leans over, breathes into him; drags him back to shore. 


End file.
